Page 51 of The Case of the Curate

Rupert, recognizing the obscenities as astonishment rather than displeasure, only grinned. “Well now, Sergeant Salter, what has the devil being doing with you?”

“Mr. Grande, as I live and breathe!” cried the old soldier. “They’ve never locked you up, have they? What’s this bleeding country come to when it’s locking up the clergy?”

“Everyone makes mistakes, eh, sergeant?”

“Sleep tight, gentlemen,” Boyle said, already walking away while his colleague opened the outer door.

Rupert caught the still-swaying, drunkenly smiling figure of Sergeant Sam Salter around the waist and lowered him into a sitting position on the unused pallet.

“Thank you kindly, sir. Still can’t quite get me balance without the arm.”

“Especially when loaded with a few gallons of gin.”

Salter snorted out a laugh. “That too.”

“That why you’re here, sergeant? Or are you accused of something else?”

“No, just drunk and disorderly. Expect they’ll let me go in the morning for a fine, once I’ve seen the beak. Not worth locking me up for longer.”

“Can you pay the fine?”

Salter turned out all his pockets in a hopeful kind of way. But there was nothing in them save a handful of small stones. He’d taken one pebble from the ground of every action he’d fought in, in several different countries. Of course, sometimes the stones fell out of his pockets—which was probably just as well, as they’d otherwise have torn the seams of his coat by now.

Or perhaps they had. His old coat was barely recognizable as a uniform anymore, so worn and dirty had it grown since the last time Rupert saw him.

“Glad to find you’re still alive,” Rupert said.

Salter nodded, briefly serious. “Not many walked out of that hospital.”

“I know. When did you come home?”

“Month or so ago.”

“But you’re not from the south, are you?”

“No. Yorkshire. Truth to tell, don’t want to go home like this. And I had a duty to a mate. Took his kit to his widow in London. Don’t seem to like cities anymore, so I come out to the country.”

“Having fun, sergeant?”

Salter grinned. “Got any grog?”

Rupert dug his flask out of his coat. It was silver and engraved with his initials. It had been a gift from his eldest brother for his eighteenth birthday, and it had seen much service on many a rollicking night—and among the wounded and exhausted in the aftermath of Waterloo. Since then, he had carried it for emergencies, and the constables hadn’t bothered to take it from him.

Looking at this thin, inebriated version of Sergeant Salter, he diagnosed an emergency of a sort. He took a sip, wiped the top on his sleeve, and passed the flask to Salter, who swigged and grinned with delight.

“Damn, that’s the decent stuff! Don’t suppose you got it in here.”

“No,” Rupert replied, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “So how long have you been in Chadleigh?”

“Three days? Maybe four. Not sure. Not been terribly sober.” After another swig, Salter remembered to pass the flask back to Rupert, who set it casually beside him on the floor.

“Where have you been staying?” Rupert asked. “At the inn?”

“Nah. Mostly in barns and outbuildings. Truth be told, I don’t always remember how I got there, but I find my way back into town each morning. Walking’s good. Might walk on when I get out of here. Pretty country, this. Nice and flat. Mostly.”

“So you fall out of the tavern and walk outside the town to sleep for free?”

“Got chased by a dog once, but mostly, it’s easy enough. Even the dog came round eventually. He liked the company.”